The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [248]
Philippa, joining her voice to his, said wetly, ‘Stop it!’
‘She says, Stop it,’ said Lymond.
The sword, flashing wickedly, slid past his shoulder. His face grim, his dark eyes unexpectedly savage: ‘Someone has to teach you a lesson,’ said Austin Grey.
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Lymond with exasperation, and finding the field bed behind him, somersaulted to freedom behind it.
Philippa said sharply, ‘Stop! Austin, stop it!’
But Austin, slithering over the bed, paid no attention. The sword cracked on the baton, and cracked again; then as Lymond ducked, the blade bit into the square maple table and then lifted, flashing again. Philippa hauled open the door. ‘Mr Crawford!’
‘What, battling down the staircase?’ said Lymond, and laughed. ‘No, thank you. Allendale, don’t be a fool. Put up.’
Austin said, ‘She came here to help you.’ He cut, across the width of the porcupine chair, and splinters flew from it.
‘She helps everybody,’ Lymond said. He heeled round the bedpost within an inch of the sword and, ripping the silk off the face of St Jerome, threw it bunched over the blade rising behind him. ‘Wait until you are wed. She’ll do your breathing for you.’ Austin shook off the cloth.
Philippa said, ‘That isn’t true!’
‘No,’ Lymond said. ‘He’s breathing the way you want him already. Gallant, sensitive, and kind to his mother.’ He flung himself sideways and laughed. A large box, fallen on its side, revealed itself as Sir Henry’s quilted black velvet close-stool. The pewter pot, rolling out, was scooped up and appropriated, in a second, as a bizarre shield by Lymond. Austin’s sword clanged on it; and again; the blade sliced, spraying, through the candlestick stand on a desk and Lymond, tapping and dodging, met a stool and was nearly sent staggering. Austin’s sword, unimpeded for once, slashed down and cut the baton cleanly in half.
Philippa said, ‘That’s enough. He didn’t harm me. You must stop now, Austin.’
Austin did not respond.
Philippa, lifting her skirts, plunged from the wall and thrust her way to the scene of the action. ‘Austin. You are fighting an unarmed man with a sword.’
Austin pushed her out of the way and, taking a sudden stride forward, nearly managed to pin his opponent between the window and bed, dodging the lute which Lymond flung at him as he did so. ‘It will perhaps teach him,’ he said, breathing hard, ‘not to force his presumptuous manners on women.’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool, Tristram Trusty,’ said Lymond. And making three precise movements: a step by the stool, a feint by the chair and a swinging stride by the bed, kicked Austin Grey’s sword neatly clean out of his hand.
It fell beside Philippa. She picked it up before Austin could turn, jammed it hard behind Sir Henry’s desk, and hurtling forward flung her arms from behind round her protector. Like the jaws of a crocodile, two capable feminine hands closed on Austin Grey’s arms over the elbow, rendering him for the moment totally helpless. And a capable feminine voice, directed past Austin Grey’s ear to his opponent, said baldly, ‘Hit him.’
Lymond, already balanced on the upswing to hurl himself forward, dropped his arm and said, with dawning reproof, ‘I was going to.’
‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘And it’ll take half an hour and end with an audience. Hit him.’
Under her hands, Austin Grey suddenly struggled.
‘Hit him!’ said Philippa sharply. ‘It’s the only way he can stop now, with honour.’
Which was not only perceptive, but practical. So Lymond hit him.
The Marquis of Allendale fell very neatly and was caught and lowered to the ground, quite insensible, by Francis Crawford of Lymond and his wife.
Lymond was laughing, with not quite enough breath to do it with. Straightening from Austin Grey’s body, he was gurgling still with breathlessness and hilarity: he sat on a box for a while, with his hands nearly touching the floor and his tangled head drooping between